Speed Limit [CHARLES LECLERC💌]

7

The click of the apartment door closing behind her was louder than Ayla expected. After days surrounded by the hum of engines, cameras, and endless chatter, the sudden silence felt almost unnatural.

She dropped her bags by the door and stood for a moment, taking in the stillness. Her apartment was small but thoughtfully arranged - a sanctuary carved out from a hectic life. Soft lighting spilled from a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows over the clean lines of her furniture.

Ayla peeled off her jacket and shrugged out of the Red Bull hoodie Max had tossed at her the night before. She folded it carefully, setting it on the back of the sofa. It smelled faintly of sweat and victory, a reminder of the race that still pulsed beneath her skin.

The kettle whistled from the kitchen, breaking the quiet. She poured herself a cup of tea, sitting by the window with the city sprawling out beneath her. The lights blinked like stars, steady and indifferent.

For a while, she just watched.

No flashes, no interviews, no schedules.

Just her.

Her phone buzzed softly on the table. She glanced down: a handful of messages from the team, brief and professional. "Good job today," "Rest up," "Schedule for next week attached." Nothing urgent.

One text stood out - from Christian Horner: "See you next week. Let's keep this momentum."

No emojis, no extras. Just business.

She put the phone face down and let the quiet settle again.

Later, she unpacked her things slowly, deliberately. Her suitcase spilled out a mix of race gear and personal items - a photo she'd tucked into the side pocket, a worn notebook filled with scattered thoughts and sketches from long flights, a small candle shaped like a racecar.

She lit the candle and closed her eyes, breathing in the soft vanilla scent. Moments like this were rare. Moments when she wasn't managing crises, spinning narratives, or pretending everything was seamless.

Ayla pulled her knees to her chest on the couch and let the thoughts rise - the win, Max's unshakable calm, the lingering glance from Charles that still felt like a flicker in her chest she couldn't quite name.

She wasn't sure what it meant. She wasn't sure she wanted to figure it out.

Instead, she pulled out her phone again and scrolled past the endless fan edits and whispered theories about her and Charles. Tonight, she didn't open a single one.

Instead, she called her closest friend-someone outside the racing world, someone who knew her before all the chaos.

His voice on the other end was warm, familiar.

"Hey," Ayla said, voice low.

"Hey, you," Nick replied. "How's the queen of the paddock holding up?"

Ayla laughed softly. "Quiet. Resting. Trying to remember what normal feels like."

They talked for a while - about everything and nothing - until the weight lifted a little.

The next morning, Ayla woke early. The city was already brightening outside her window. She made herself a strong coffee and sat at her small desk, laying out the schedule and notes for the upcoming race weekend.

She dressed the part - polished, professional - but as she glanced in the mirror, she caught her own eyes. Clear, determined.

She wasn't just part of the team. She was ready to take it further.

Packing her bag with a calm efficiency, she took one last look around the apartment - the quiet sanctuary that had kept her grounded.

Then, locking the door behind her, she stepped out into the city buzz.

The race was waiting.

And so was everything else.